Perfect Shadows Part 3

Part Two:.

SHADOWS RELICT.

Chapter 1.

I struggled for a time against the bindings that held me fast, then gave up in exhaustion. I was in total darkness, half sitting in what seemed to be a bed. My arms were stretched out to either side and securely tied. A wide band crossed my midsection, and my feet were caught together and knotted firmly to the bed's foot. Pillows cushioned my contact with the headboard behind me, which also seemed to be swathed in many layers of soft cloth. My bonds, so my questing fingers told me, were wrappings of the finest silk. I tried to remember what may have brought me to my present pa.s.s, but other than a few random images, I could remember nothing-nothing at all, not even my name.

Fear coiled in me, leaving me shaking and sick. I wrenched again at the bonds, frantically, when I heard a door open and saw the glow of a candle. "Where am I?" I whispered, but the serving wench who carried the candle only squeaked at my faint words and ran from the room. I tried to call out after her but again only produced a whisper. The light, however brief, had given me further food for thought: the room looked curiously flat and I seemed to be blind in my right eye.

The door opened again and a heavyset, jovial man of middle-age bounced through it. He set his candle upon a table and turned to the bed, his broad and placid face beaming.

"Kit, lad! So happy to see that you are-awake. How are you feeling? Confused, I warrant and rightly so. Hungry too, I doubt not. Anneke!" he bellowed the last, causing me to flinch back into my pillows. The sharp eyes in that round face missed nothing and the shout was not repeated. "I shall just see to it, shall I?" and he whisked from the room with an agility that belied his bulk, to return a few moments later with a bowl and spoon. He sat on the edge of the bed and began to feed me. The bowl held not the broth that I had expected, but something dark and only lukewarm, with an unusual salty-sweet flavor, rich and delicious. I delayed my questions until we had finished, then asked, "Why am I bound?" in a hoa.r.s.e voice, faint still, but better than a whisper.

"You've been ill, Kit, very ill, for a very long time, and at times quite violent. This is for your own sake. We feared you would do yourself some further injury."

"Will you free me now?"

"No, not yet, but soon Kit, that I promise. Now, do you remember aught of what has happened to you? Aught at all?"

"Not even being Kit," I said and found myself grinning weakly, possibly with relief at finding my captor so friendly. "Am I Kit? And who might he be?" My voice was stronger now, a husky, light baritone.

"It will be better if you can remember on your own. Shall I read to you? No? Well, rest you then and I'll look in on you anon."

"An it please you, leave the candle." The heavy man nodded and shut the door gently behind him.

I studied my surroundings. The chamber appeared to be windowless, as the fine hangings on the walls did not so much as sway, though I could hear the wind outside whistling around the corners of the house. The candle flame burned steady and tall, and the candle was expensive hard wax, not cheap tallow. The bed where I lay was adorned with the richest of hangings and the floor was covered over in peerless Turkey carpets which at home would be carefully kept on tables and chests, the floors making do with rushes or straw. I drew a sharp breath. Home! The memory was but a glimpse and try though I might, nothing more would come of it, so I returned to my contemplation of my prison. I could hear, faint and far away, voices and music, and beyond that the forlorn howls of wolves. Though I had not meant to sleep, I soon found a dulling lethargy stealing over me, drowning my will.

When I awoke I was in darkness once more. The candle had guttered out and the smell of the smoking wick brought a burdensome memory: the cavernous great cathedral, the scent of wax candles and incense, a show of outward piety rotted from within by secret vice. I could feel the alderman's sweaty hands roaming my recoiling body, feel his hot, panting breath as he pawed the child that I had been-I stifled a cry at the memory and the sound of my own voice calmed me. Whatever it was, whenever it may have happened, it was not now. And then the memories were gone, vanished into shadow like the light of a blown-out candle. I knew that I had remembered something, but not what. I threw myself against the restraints as if I could physically grasp the memories, catch them and hold them if only I were free! In a frighteningly short time, I was too exhausted to move, and slumped in my bonds. A sheen of sweat covered me, chilling my flesh, so that my skin glistened in the sudden light of the candle the heavy-set man carried as he entered.

"Nicolas!" I called out and laughed. "Nicolas."

"My dear young friend! You remember me! What-"

"No. No, I do but remember that that name goes with that face: I know you not."

"But it is a beginning. And what have you been doing to so exercise yourself?" he asked, pulling a large handkerchief from the sleeve of his doublet and mopping at my brow.

"Remembering," I said, wryly. He smiled at that and turned back to the door. When he returned to the bed he proceeded to feed me as before. As we finished a serving man entered bearing a tray laden with shaving apparatus. The servant shaved me and combed out the dark curls that lay over my shoulders, then retired.

"I am half blind-why?" I asked softly.

"You lost the eye when you were injured," Nicolas said gently and tied a black silk patch to cover the empty socket. He held a mirror that I might study the effect. I looked into the face of a stranger, not unhandsome, and the eye-patch gave my countenance a sinister air of which I thoroughly approved.

"And now, my friend, do you feel up to meeting our host?" Nicolas beamed at me.

"Then you are not-yes, I feel quite well. May I not be freed first?"

He shook his head gravely. "No, that is for him to say. He has much experience with injuries and illnesses such as yours and will know best. Now rest yourself and I shall bring him." It was only a few minutes later that Nicolas returned with a man of overwhelming presence. He was tall and well built with the lithe grace of a professional duelist, and like a duelist, he radiated a sense of inherent danger. His clothing, somewhat conservative, was of impeccable cut and somber in color. His full-cut trousers met high boots of supple leather; his black satin doublet was richly embroidered with gold thread. His shirt was of black silk, and even his falling band of cobweb-lawn had been dyed sable. It set off perfectly the pallor of his complexion and the tawny gold of his hair, tied into lovelocks with silk ribbons and flowing over his right shoulder in rippling waves to his waist. In his left earlobe he wore a cabochon ruby the color of blood, and a gold ring on the little finger of his right hand.

His penetrating glance looked out from under finely arched brows, his slate-grey eyes were shadowed by his long lashes and wide-set under a high forehead with a p.r.o.nounced widow's peak. When I realized that I was gaping like a b.u.mpkin I flushed and looked away for a second, but my gaze was drawn irresistibly back to this man, my host. Beside him, Nicolas looked like a squat bundle of laundry and I guessed that I myself would appear but a callow stripling. I certainly felt like one.

The man crossed the room to sit familiarly on the side of my bed and smiled. His mouth sensitive, and his voice, when he spoke, was resonant and deep, his English perfect, though with an odd intonation. "I am Geoffrey of Brittany. Welcome to my house, Christopher Marlowe."

Marlowe . . . Marlowe . . . the name echoed in my mind. Yes, I was Marlowe, the darling of the playhouses. Images flashed before me: a playhouse stage before a shouting crowd; a beautiful young man with eyes of harebell-blue reaching up a slender hand to sweep his golden hair from his sulky mouth; an older man's sullen, envious face; a woman dark as the boy had been fair, radiating a refined sensuality that could rouse a man three days dead; then the memories slipped away again, taunting me. I shook my head to clear it and smiled weakly back at my host. "Might I be loosed now, my lord?"

"Please, call me Geoffrey. Yes, I think that you may, upon your word not to leave your bed without either Nicolas or myself beside you, until I say you may. Do you so promise?"

"Yes," I said, eagerly. Within a few minutes I was free of the restraints that had held me so long; I brought my hands together, rubbing them slowly, although there was little of the numbness I had expected. I puzzled a bit over the ring I found upon my right little finger, an amethyst intaglio, the head of a handsome man in the cla.s.sical style, set in gold. It was a fellow to the one that Geoffrey, and, as I now noted, Nicolas also wore.

"Now, we shall see if you are up to taking a few steps, yes? Good." I swung my feet over the side of the bed and stood in one motion. A wave of dizziness swept over me. I swayed and might have crashed to the floor if Geoffrey had not caught me and set me gently back upon the bed.

"Not so fast, my young friend! You have been long abed, and must expect to take some time to find your feet again," Nicolas exclaimed. I nodded, laughing ruefully, and took the proffered arm, managing only a few wobbly steps before Geoffrey peremptorily ordered me back to bed. Again I felt the lethargy stealing over me, and as I drifted into a heavy sleep I heard him murmur to Nicolas "He does well. Another day of rest and he will be strong enough to. .. ." and then sleep claimed me.

Chapter 2.

When I woke, still in darkness, the novelty of freedom overtook me. Almost without volition I sat up on the edge of the bed, my feet a few inches from the floor. My promise to Geoffrey slipped through my mind, but I felt so much stronger, and he would never know . . . abruptly I threw myself back onto the pillows, resigned to wait.

"Very good, you do well to remember and obey," Geoffrey said softly in the darkness. I started, and was so overwhelmed by relief that I had not pressed my folly that I could think of nothing to reply. Geoffrey silently left the room, returning minutes later with a candle and a cup on a tray. I took the cup, peered at it doubtfully and sipped. It was the same substance as before, rich and flavorful, though only lukewarm. I cleared my throat and Geoffrey, who had busied himself lighting the room's many candles turned to look at me quizzically.

"I think I may be ready for more solid food?" I said and flushed to hear what I had meant to be a statement twist itself into a question. Geoffrey shook his head kindly but said nothing." What is this potion, if I may ask?"

"Oh, you may ask what you will, but I only answer what I choose," Geoffrey said curtly. He stepped to the door and handed me a bundle that had been laying there. I drained the cup and opened the parcel, which contained princely clothing that had most probably once belonged to him. I became suddenly conscious of my nakedness before him, and swiftly shook out and donned the shirt. It was cream-colored silk and finer than anything I had ever worn, of that much I was certain. There were full-cut trousers, rather than the trunk-hose I'd unconsciously expected, to tuck into leather boots lined with fleece, but no hose or stockings. The doublet, like the trousers, was a deep garnet-red velvet, embroidered with gold and pearls. When I was dressed, Geoffrey offered his hand and helped me rise. I felt considerably stronger and steadier than I had the previous day and eagerly agreed when Geoffrey suggested that I seemed well enough to walk downstairs. We stopped on the landing of the wide staircase to allow me to rest, as I found navigating the stairs difficult, having no depth perception. I saw through the oriel windows that it was night. There was snow on the ground, but the sky was clear and dominated by the full moon, which bathed the scene in unearthly light. I stared, entranced, until Geoffrey coughed softly behind me.

"Your pardon," I smiled, "but it is beautiful."

"And you are a poet," he nodded. A poet, was I? Oh, yes, Marlowe, so they told me, however unlikely it seemed. We continued down the stairs, through the hall and into a small nearby room. A fire was burning brightly, and before it my friend Nicolas was sitting with a woman. Nicolas bounced to his feet when he spied us and offered his chair. I took it, but kept my gaze upon the woman. She was beautiful, but not the dark woman of my fleeting vision. Her hair was white-blonde, framing the face of a Flemish Madonna and falling unbound over a body that would be the envy of a Venetian courtesan. Her clothing was well cut, less revealing than court costume, but revealing enough. Nicolas went to stand behind her chair, leaning over to rest his hands on her shoulders. "This is Anneke, my wife," he said proudly. "Anneke, this is my English friend, Christopher Marlowe." We exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, but I was distracted by an odd phenomenon: Anneke seemed almost to glow with a visible light. I found myself leaning towards her, and the sudden desire to touch her, to bring her pulsing wrist to my lips, almost overpowered me.

"Christopher!" Geoffrey's voice was sharp, slinging me back in my chair. I looked up in confusion as Nicolas helped Anneke to her feet. I started to mutter an apology, but he waved it aside.

"I understand, Kit, as does Anneke, better than you do yourself just now. Geoffrey, I agree: it is time. I will return soon." The prince nodded, crossing the room to sit in the chair next to mine, and eyed me thoughtfully.

The fire in the hearth whispered. Outside, beyond the shrouded window, the only sound was the occasional snap and fall of a branch overburdened with ice.

"I do not like it, Christopher," he said, "But I must force your memory. Were we at my home in Sybria I could spare you the time, but Brittany is no longer safe."

"There is danger?"

"There is always some danger, but now doubled," he said impatiently. I realized that when such a mood was upon him, one did not safely question Geoffrey. After a moment he continued. "You must be made to remember. If you can. I must learn your limits and your abilities, and determine if you are a peril to us." I did not need to be told my fate should Geoffrey perceive my existence as a threat. "You have always been a pa.s.sionate, impetuous man, volatile, reckless, and self-destructive. If that part of your nature has survived and increased without tempering, you will be a continuing danger to us." Geoffrey stood and began to pace again.

Within minutes Nicolas returned and drew another chair up to the fire on my other side, as Geoffrey took his former place. We were silent for a time, until I could bear it no longer.

"What has happened to me? I do not-" Geoffrey cut me off with an abrupt gesture.

"It would be better, perhaps, to let you remember at your own pace, but that I cannot do-" he broke off and it took every ounce of control I could muster not to reveal my impatience. He shrugged slightly and continued. "I must tell you that forcing your memory may drive you into madness, and such a madness as would compel me to destroy you to protect others; doubt not that I would do so," he reiterated. Somehow I did not doubt it in the least. "Look at the portrait," Geoffrey stood and lit the candles on the mantel, throwing a golden light onto the painting over it. I stood to view it and gasped.

That was the woman from my memory; the wide-set smoky dark eyes, the finely modeled face with its dark sweeping brows, long straight nose, and slightly disdainful mouth over a chin a bit too prominent for cla.s.sical beauty, all setoff by the abundant glossy waves of russet-black hair. But the painting couldn't capture the sophisticated carnality, the pa.s.sion that had permeated my vision.

"We were staying at the Mayor's house in London; there you saw her first," Nicolas spoke softly.

I realized that I was sitting again-my knees had given out. I took up the narrative in a voice suddenly hoa.r.s.e and toneless. "The night before the Lord Mayor's Twelfth Night Masque." The surging memories of my final months of life almost overwhelmed me in their sudden clarity, faster and faster, flooding my mind, drowning my will, until Frizer's dagger plunged at my face and a scream tore at my throat, though no sound came forth. I felt myself falling, but couldn't raise a hand, crippled with shock and terror. I welcomed the darkness that rose up to swallow me.

Chapter 3.

I awoke in darkness, bound once more and this time gagged as well. As my consciousness returned so did memory, and memory was intolerable. My muscles knotted and I bucked against my bonds in convulsion, but my awareness did not forsake me. When the attack pa.s.sed I remained conscious, though sweat-soaked and exhausted. Twice more the agony racked me, each time growing a little less savage. As I came out of the third seizure I realized the room was candlelit and I was no longer alone. Nicolas sat on the foot of the bed watching me compa.s.sionately. Restrained as I was, I could only look at him. After a few minutes had pa.s.sed with no further paroxysms Nicolas stood and removed the gag. "Why?" I asked, in a voice cracked with fatigue.

"It was necessary, Kit, but you went into such violent convulsions that it was all Geoffrey could do to keep you out of the fireplace. He held you immobile for hours, until the convulsions eased enough for us to get you back upstairs. It happens that way sometimes."

"Will you untie me?"

"No," said Geoffrey from the doorway. "Not for a time yet. We have much to discuss, and you, I doubt not, have many questions."

"I was . . . Frizer wouldn't have stopped at half blinding me. He meant my death: I read it in his face."

"Frizer murdered you while Skeres held you down and Poley kept watch at the door," Nicolas said quietly. Another spasm, though again shorter and less furious, lashed through my bound and weary body. He fetched water and a cloth from the table and bathed my face. "One of my serving-men was in Deptford when it happened. He told me of your death."

"I hope they hanged Frizer in Tom's full sight!" I raged, then asked, "What?" as Nicolas glanced at Geoffrey, who nodded slightly.

"He did not hang at all, Kit. The verdict at the inquest was self defense," Nicolas told me softly, bracing himself as if he expected me to convulse again, but there was only a single fierce tremor before I brought myself back under control, laughing bitterly.

"Well, Tom was ever a better friend to him than to me. But how is it, then, that I live?" I looked first to Nicolas, then to Geoffrey, but it was Nicolas who finally spoke.

"You remember the night we met, and I read the markings in your hand for you? Yes, well, I did not tell you all that I saw. Rozsa saw it first. The line of your life broke off short: you would die young, and soon. A closer look revealed a star on the line of the head: you would die violently from a wound to the head-Rozsa was most upset. We are not as other folk, Kit. Have you heard of vampires?" I searched my ragged memory.

"Spirits that return from the dead to prey upon the living? But spirits have no flesh. . . ." I forced my mind from its path, my gaze flicking between Geoffrey and Nicolas as Nicolas spoke again.

"We are not spirits, Kit, or at least no more so than are other men. This-condition is pa.s.sed from us to mortals by the exchange of blood." He saw the hot color flood my face and laughed gently. "Oh, I know not the details, only that Rozsa found you apt and made such an exchange with you. She was wrong not to give you the choice, to make the exchange and leave you unaware of the possible consequences of your actions."

"I would have chosen no differently if she had," I reflected.

"And even so you might yet have died, Kit, for the exchange alone will not make the vampire. It is the will to live, the defiance of death itself that makes us so.

"So there you lay, to all appearances as dead as your enemies could wish you, and none knew that you yet might live save Rozsa and I. The inquest seemed to take an eternity, and we were nearly frantic; it was held on the first day of June, the third day since the murder, and on that night you would rise, if indeed you were not truly dead. We considered stealing your body if necessary, but as it happened, the inquest was swiftly over. We bribed the s.e.xton, your body was secretly handed to us and a pauper lies in the unmarked grave meant for you." I stared at him blankly for a few seconds then started to tremble. Nicolas started towards me, as if he thought another convulsion was coming on, until he realized I had collapsed against my restraints in helpless mirth, the tears streaming down my face.

"'He gave them the cup, saying this is my blood . . . and on the third day he rose again from the dead'. . . ." I gasped when I could get a breath. Geoffrey and Nicolas glanced at each other, Geoffrey frowning, but Nicolas smiling indulgently, then Geoffrey stepped to the door. "Jehan," he called softly, and the serving-man I had seen before entered. He was tall and graceful, with an air of barely-subdued strength. His face was handsome in an unusual, predatory way, with high cheekbones beneath tilted eyes of feral gold. I noticed he had the same curious aspect as Anneke: he seemed almost to glow.

"You must feed, Christopher, if you are to live. We have not fed you these several days, to sap the strength of your convulsions, but soon you will starve. You must now make your final choice," Geoffrey said. "You must take the living blood from this man's veins to nourish yourself, and sustain this life you have chanced upon, or refuse, and starve, to find yet the death you might have had." Geoffrey's face was impa.s.sive as he motioned to Nicolas and the two left the room. Jehan sat on the bed, close to me. I realized with sudden dread that I was expected to bite into a vein and drink the blood of this man, who was, it seemed, entirely in favor of the procedure. My stomach twisted and I viewed the man with some alarm.

"I am Jehan, Master Marlowe," the big man said gently, and pressed the pulsing vein in his wrist to my dry lips. I had meant to turn my head away, but the scent of his living flesh overcame my reluctance, and instinctively my teeth caught the vein, penetrating the skin. My mouth filled with his warm sweet blood and my body with new strength as the liquid flowed like sparking fire down my throat. There was a different gratification suffusing me, not overwhelming, as when Rozsa had taken my blood, but a warmth of feeling that deepened as I drank. All too soon the wrist was forced from me. Geoffrey had returned and pulled Jehan away. Jehan, his eyes content and sleepy, leaned forward and kissed my lips, still wet with his blood, then turned to rest his head across my knees and sank into slumber. I felt the familiar lethargy claiming me, and I too, slept.

Awaking slowly some hours later, I jerked against the restraints, for the head that rested so warmly on me was not that of a man at all, but that of a large wolf. A very large wolf. The animal raised his head and eyed me with a lupine grin before spilling off the bed to the floor, where, before my unbelieving gaze, a mist seemed to envelop it, a mist that elongated then solidified into a man's shape: Jehan. A very naked and well-built Jehan, who smiled at me, scooped up the tangle of his clothing from the floor by the bed, then left the room. Almost immediately, Geoffrey entered, crossed to the bed, and began to unknot my bonds. "Mayhap you should wait, for I may yet be mad!" I told him, and described what I had just seen, but he only nodded and finished his task.

"No, you are not mad; Jehan is a wolf, but he is also a man. His clan has served my family for centuries, an a.s.sociation of benefit to us both. His folk are easily swayed by their animal natures and would often run afoul of society if they had not someone to protect and guide them. They serve us in return. Now, do you dress yourself and come downstairs." Geoffrey did not seem to think that I should require any a.s.sistance, and I was most eager to prove him right.

I dressed in the clothing I had worn before and started down the stairs. At the landing a wave of giddiness swept over me and I might have fallen, had not a serving-wench dropped the bundle she carried and caught me in her arms. She had the look of Jehan about her, the tip-tilted gold eyes and the dark burnished hair. She held me a moment then stepped back before the nearness of her, the vitality, could entice me further. She caught my right hand in both of hers and pressed a kiss into my palm before picking up her bundle and scurrying up the stairs. Bemused, I made my way to the study with no further mishap, and found Geoffrey and Nicolas awaiting me. I sat in the vacant chair between them, as I had before. "Tell me about vampires," I said. Geoffrey gave me a long, considering stare before replying.

"There are several kinds of vampires," he began. "Bloodlines, we call them. You may think of us as families, with many characteristics, some differing and some the same. Our bloodline is the Alexandrine, but more about that at another time.

"There are many myths about our kind, most of which have no factual basis. We breathe, but perhaps from force of habit rather than need, as a lack of air does not kill us. There is actually very little that may kill those of our family; fire, certainly, or decapitation; wood is harmful to us, but metal is not. Oh, a blade will cut our flesh and we will bleed for a short time, but we heal completely from the most grievous wounds, and do not die. If Frizer had used a wooden weapon you would indeed have died from the injury he inflicted; as it was you were much damaged, and will be healing for some time to come. It is often so, with the wounds that turn us from our former lives.

"We can starve, but that is rare, for our gifts are great. The attraction Rozsa exerted upon you, against your natural inclinations, is an example. It acts as a lure to call our chosen to us."

"Where is Rozsa?" I broke in. "She said once that I called her, one night when I was unhappy and alone." Geoffrey nodded thoughtfully.

"Yes, where we become emotionally involved a link may be forged. She is in Paris now. We sent her away when you first awoke last summer."

"Last summer? But-"

"Anon, Kit. I will lend you my journals from the period. It was for the best, as you will see," Nicolas counseled, and with that I had to be content as Geoffrey continued his discourse.

"We do reflect in mirrors, being, as you have pointed out, of solid flesh. That misconception came about, I believe, when men, knowing less of optics, thought that what a mirror reflected was the soul, and it is supposed we have none. The sun is not necessarily deadly to our kind, and still less so the older we are, but prolonged exposure can damage us past the point of healing ourselves without aid, and daylight is not our natural element: it can leave us sluggish and vulnerable. The lethargy it induces is heaviest when we are newly risen, and that is when we are at our most vulnerable.

"We do not change our shapes, but our servants do, accounting for that myth, I think. It is useful to us, is it not, that mortals are misled in so many particulars?" I stared pensively at the fire.

"That is not the first time that 'mortals' have been referred to. Are we, then, immortal?"

"Virtually, Kit, virtually," Nicolas answered. "How old would you guess me to be?" I studied the figure before me.

"Fifty?" I hazarded. Von Poppelau nodded solemnly.

"So I was, and more, when I died more than ninety years ago." He settled back in his chair to tell his story.

"I was in the Low Countries when I received the letter from Rozsa's mother, Anna, my G.o.d-daughter," he said. "She was in Barcelona with her husband, Adan Francisco de Salinas y Verdad. They had run afoul of the Inquisition, and she feared for their lives, and for their young daughter. I left immediately, but I came to Barcelona too late to save Anna and Adan: they had been burnt as heretics.